


the creation of nugs.

by Pitseleh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Fluff, Relationship(s), unusual inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitseleh/pseuds/Pitseleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme prompt asking for Cullen and the Inquisitor getting off to a rough start, but eventually growing to respect each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the creation of nugs.

**Author's Note:**

> sssso the backstory for this is when i romanced cullen, i did it with an inquisitor that i'd based off an oc of mine who was very much not a noble. i kind of headcanoned them into human commoner origin. she had a rough start with cullen, so when i saw the prompt, i couldn't really envision writing any other inquisitor with him. so that's why this character isn't a tevelyan even though they're human. oops?

Cullen meets her on the field, which he thinks, looking back at it all, is more suited to her nature than his. He is a man of service, someone who has trained his whole life to survive violent acts, to protect and defend. She is no soldier, but she is certainly a warrior.

But in the split second he first lays eyes on her, he doesn't know _what_ she is. Yes, he's seen the prisoner, a pale woman made to look paler by the bright redness of her hair and the freckles on her skin. Some kind of mercenary, they supposed, sent here for any of the hundreds of reasons mercenaries could be sent here. He does not connect that woman, sleeping on the floor of a prison, with the creature that rends a demon in half right in front of him. He's splattered with... whatever demons are made of, and left, for a moment, facing her eye-to-eye.

He doesn't know it yet, but her name is Ioane of Denerim. She was born, they will say, in the city of Andraste's birth; it is fated.

But in that moment, he only sees someone splattered with viscera, eyes wild with anger, breathing deeply into the cold. The creature turns, hand glowing, and closes the rift before them. The demons stop pouring out. His men are saved. In that moment, the small victories are all that matter.

She's gone as soon as she's introduced. He doesn't see Ioane again until the Breach's horrible progress is slowed.

By then, she's a pale and motionless body again. He thinks, as she's carried back to Haven, how distinct the difference is. She was so vital, on the field, and now she's like a lifeless doll. Perhaps she is one of those warriors who only finds life in combat, and disdains of more civilian concern.

When she awakens, he finds this is not remotely so.

"And this is Commander Cullen, leader of our forces. You met him earlier..."

"Yeah, I remember, it was some time after you took me out of the freezing basement you were keeping me chained in?"

She does not get along with Cassandra.

Leliana's sources find all they can on her, which is not terribly much. Very few records are kept on the life of the peasantry, even less in urban settings. The Chantry records of her consecration ceremony list her as Ioane, daughter of Brennus. The records showed that Brennus had three other children, all sons, all older than Ioane. Circle records showed one of them had been a mage, and taken to the tower at the age of twelve, and Cullen could even vaguely remember the boy, but they'd never spoken. (Hardly surprising; Kinloch hold was a large circle.) Further poking around revealed that Ioane's father had been a tanner, but details of his life were scant. Leliana's people discovered only that he had a bad reputation in Denerim, and it was inadvisable to owe him money.

"What do _you_ think of her, our Herald?" Leliana asks him one day.

Cullen shrugs. "I have barely spoken to her. She comes to watch our drills, sometimes, but she never joins in. And I hardly have time to seek out-"

"Perhaps you intimidate her." Leliana's voice is impish, teasing, and Cullen, as ever, rises to the bait.

"Me?" He shakes his head. "Why would _I_ intimidate her?"

"Templars do not always have a good reputation with the common people, Commander." Leliana is still smiling. "Or perhaps she thinks she would look very bad, standing next to you."

"That is ridiculous," Cullen says. "She's a warrior. She can't care so much about looks- and what are you implying about _me_?"

Leliana laughs, gentle as a spider's legs dancing on its web. "You are very handsome, Commander. The sooner you realize that, the better. As for her... Well, I would not want to speak so poorly of the Herald of Andraste, but she is no one to be found in the lines of a poem, no?"

It's true, Ioane is hardly the type one expects to be the subject of portraits. He hadn't thought much of it-- it's been some time since he was a boy, focusing intently on the qualities of every girl he saw-- but her features are hardly arranged in the ways of classical beauty. Her skin is more sallow pale than the cream and milk tones of the paler nobility; her eyes are small and sunken in; her face is thin and her mouth is too large for it.

But, still. "That's nonsense. Any warrior so caught up in their looks would be terrible on the field." And he's seen her fight, he remembers the reckless fury of her movements. That is the style of someone unconcerned whether their looks are worsened in an assault.

"Then you tell me, Commander," Leliana says, turning to go, "why she has not spoken to the only one of the Inquisition's leaders who is also Fereldan."

The next time Cullen catches her watching the morning drills, he calls out to her. Thinking of her potential fear of templars, he attempts to be polite and gentle with it. Mostly, he mucks it up. "You, there! Herald! I- Um, if you wouldn't mind... coming over here?" His shout fades into a confused question.

He can see her frown from yards away, and it doesn't disappear, even as she gets up and walks over. "You... yelled for me?" She pauses. "Ser?"

"I- yes." He takes a moment to scratch the back of his head. "That is... I wondered if you wanted to join in the morning drills?"

Ioane's eyes slightly narrow. "D'ou think my form is off?"

"No! No, I just wondered-"

"Because if you think my form is off-"

"Because you're always watching, but you-"

"Then you should just man up and fucking tell me-"

"What? I- no!"

"Why would I do drills? I don't fight with the troops." She waves her hand toward the men and women sparring before them.

"It's good practice! And I thought-"

"You thought. Do you have thoughts often?"

"What?"

"Bloody-" She tsks dismissively, and turns her head to look once more at the soldiers. "I wanted to see how they were being trained. You're constantly fucking busy, so I thought I'd leave you be and figure it out for my own bloody self."

"I-" How did that go so poorly? It's happened so suddenly, Cullen isn't sure whether to be offended or apologetic. "I only thought-"

"You only thought...?"

If she would just stop bloody interrupting- "I _thought_ ," he says, trying and failing not to sound snide and bitter, "you were shy. I was attempting to be polite."

"Well," Ioane's smile is very sharp, just then. "You know what they say about us savage Fereldans."

And with that, she leaves, and Cullen is left sputtering.

Cullen cannot decide who, precisely, was at fault for the incident, and it settles uneasily into his mind. Ioane is someone to be careful around, he decides. Honestly, he'd prefer to avoid her entirely, but they work together, and more than that, after being accused of shyness, she goes out of her way to visit him. 

Her visits are rarely pleasant, "So, Commander... What kind of... vows do the Templars take?"

"What do you mean?" He places a hand on his sheathed sword.

"Vows of service, obviously," she counts on her fingers, "but probably not vows of humility. Do vows of poverty count when you're not paid? _Are_ templars paid?"

He can feel a headache coming on. "Service, yes. Humility, I'm not even sure what that means."

"Why you made a good templar-"

" _Quiet_ ," he snaps, but her smile only widens. "And we _are_ paid in yearly stipends."

"What about chastity?"

" _What_?" There's the headache. "Why would you ask..."

"You said you'd answer my questions." The look of innocence she puts on doesn't quite fall securely on the face of someone who has clearly labored hard and eaten poorly in childhood. It's a sobering thought, or it would be, if she didn't make it so damnably hard to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Templars are not expected to give up those, er, temptations, no." Why is she looking at him like that? "Though they can, if they wish to prove their faith especially."

"Did you wish to prove your faith especially?"

" _No_. And why- why are you asking?"

"I want to know you better! So we can become _friends_." Her tone speaks, however, of quite the reverse. 

He wishes he knew what he did to offend her so bloody much. He can hardly ask her-- she would just deny the accusation, he's sure of it. So, instead, they continue their silly little dance, hissing and snapping at each other, until he finds her one day, tucked away around the back of the Chantry. Why is she hiding? What is she doing? It's likely some reprehensible prank, the type it's becoming clear Sera is so very fond of (and those two _do_ get along far better than anyone ought to with either) and he walks through the brambles and the snow to pull her out of it.

He finds, instead, that she's crying. There's a horrible moment when he tries to back away, to escape before she sees him, but he's wearing plate armor. Something invariably clanks, and she looks up with red eyes. They're swollen from crying, and it clashes horribly with her hair.

It's also when he notices, for the first time, that her eyes are green.

She clearly doesn't know what to say either, and he feels like he's done something unspeakable. This is worse than the first time, he realizes. This time, he knows what he's done.

"Erm," now that he's spoken, he can't stop, but _what to say_? "Are you alright?"

Ioane closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. When she releases it, she's stopped crying for a moment, but it starts up again. "Fuck," she hisses under her breath. " _Shit_ , dammit."

"Can I get... you anything?"

She cries a little bit more. This is awful. Cullen feels awful. He wants, for a single and terribly weak moment, nothing more than to be anywhere but just there, anywhere but shivering in the snow with a crying woman and a sharp pain between his eyes. But for all their difficulty, they're on the same side, working under the same banner. He cannot shirk his duty.

"Look," he says, trying for gentle, "what's wrong?"

"My brother's dead," Ioane weeps into her hands. Of course, she makes it sound like an accusation. "At the conclave- the mages- everyone-"

It's been weeks since the conclave. Nearly a month. How long has she been living in hope? "When did you find out?"

"When the- in the-" She brings her wrists together, like how Cassandra had her bound- ah. 

"You always knew?"

"Everyone _died_ -" She pulls back another sob, and hugs her shoulders. "He was there- for the talks. He said, come get me, we haven't seen each other in years, so I- and-" She cries just once more, a little gasp of pain. "And now he's dead." Her voice has taken on a tired quality, as though she's run out of the energy to mourn. She stands up a little straighter, wiping the tears away from her eyes. "Sometimes I just... get reminded. Sorry."

"You- you've nothing to apologize for."

She laughs, a terribly bitter sound. "Not yet, anyway."

They don't talk about that incident. Things, honestly, continue the way they were. She asks prying and invasive questions, and he endures them. He supposes he should have more sympathy for her, but plenty of people mourn without being so bloody abrasive with it. It's hard to have patience when your head pounds and there's a woman asking you about your personal life.

"Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?"

"Er, no? I was not... terribly social."

"Really," Ioane says, looking around. They're at the training grounds again. They are only ever at the training grounds. They don't speak casually at war table meetings, and he's rarely to be found elsewhere. "You don't say."

He groans.

"But, I meant," she continues, "anyone _special_?" 

"Maker, no," he shakes his head. "Far too busy for that. And why are you- no, of course, because you're getting to know me."

"We're going to be great friends," she says, with that terrible smile of hers. Does she know how it makes her look? "I can tell."

Despite everything, he isn't angry when she brings the mages back from Redcliffe. Her feelings for her dead brother are likely clouding her judgement when she makes statements about the rights of mage freedom-- and, honestly, it isn't as though Cullen disagrees. But he's seen first hand the worst possible from both parties; safeties need to be put in place. Does she see that?

"If they fall to corruption, or... whatever," she rolls her eyes, "enforce stricter standards. Don't punish someone before they committed a crime; you're a Templar, not an Arl."

"I am _not_ a templar any longer."

"You had... templar training or something, Maker, it's not an insult." She starts to leave.

"And if I called you a peasant in the same tone?"

She whirls around. "Oh, you're saying we're on equal footing with templars? Great bloody compliment you're paying me, now." 

He shouldn't've started. Speaking with her is always nonsense. Still, that was unworthy of him. He ought to apologize, if only for himself, in spite of the fact that she will likely misinterpret it as a victory.

So he says, "I am sorry," and, "that was unworthy of me."

Her hardened smile fades, and for a moment she looks honestly confused. That fades, too, and like a soldier putting her shield back up, her anger and intensity returns. 

It gives Cullen an idea-- maybe this is all an act, a defense, some sort of taunt to protect her heart-- but it doesn't matter. Treating someone badly is still _bad_ , regardless of your reasoning.

Ioane just smiles, anyway, and walks away, calling out, "Oh, that _wasn't_ a compliment?"

Cullen forgets, precisely, what happens next. Some dimness, doldrums, a week or so while they prepare to close the Breach. And they do, but that, too, is a rush, the wind wailing in his ears compared to what happens next. Haven is sacked. They barely escape with their lives. 

They meet in the chantry, and she's bloody and disheveled once more, holding tightly onto the greatsword she uses in battle. There's a gash on her forehead, but he can't tell how much it's bleeding; too much of the blood mixes in with her hair.

"For this to work," she says, "I'll have to distract him."

And Cullen has to ask, "How will _you_ make it out?"

She smiles, and it's a real smile this time, not the sharp defensive armor he's seen in the past. "I'll see my brother again."

It's the kind of cheap, utterly ridiculous language you can only get away with when the world is falling apart around you. It all happens so fast. He doesn't have time to argue, to stop her, or even to feel her loss. He's busy herding people along the path, directing his soldiers, packing supplies, and by the time they have a moment to breathe, it's too late. Haven is buried like a pagan funeral, and the Herald of Andraste is dead.

"We should mount a search party," Josephine says.

Cullen finds himself numbly agreeing. "We should."

He doesn't expect to find her. It's why he goes, and why he brings Cassandra along. This is a job far better suited for Leliana's people, scouts and soldiers not in authoritative positions over the Inquisition. But it's hopeless, isn't it? It's the nearest Ioane will get to a proper funeral. He should attend.

Cullen has lost friends before, plenty of them. He knows what mourning feels like. And Ioane was perhaps not his _friend_ , but he does mourn her loss. She was the Herald, after all. How will they close other, smaller rifts, now? 

But it's deeper than that, isn't it? He thinks on this, on anything to distract him from the biting cold whipping around his ears. His fingers throb in the cold, his eyes water, he doesn't think about it. Templar training can be used for many different sorts of things. He concentrates, refocuses his mind, and ignores the cold. 

Instead, Ioane. He'll miss her, he realizes. Which is ridiculous, really; it's hardly as though he enjoyed her company. But it was a challenge, certainly exciting. It made him think, and she never pushed too far, did she? When she asked about Kinloch Hold, she didn't keep prying. And when they talked, yes, he had to keep on his guard, but the rhythms had become familiar. It was like a chess match, almost.

He'll miss that.

And perhaps it's the Maker's own sense of humor, then, that he spots her first. She's shivering horribly in the snow, her armor is _freezing_ , but she's alive. Cassandra and the men all help in dragging her back, and she mutters scattered phrases, having clearly entered into some sort of delirium. The healers among the mages are, ultimately, what saves her life.

It's as Cullen has always suspected, yes. The Maker surely has a sense of humor. If He didn't, surely He would never have created nugs.

After that, finding a way forward is a long and painful journey. They don't talk much. He's glad she's alright, that's what matters. He finds himself strangely looking forward to their next conversation. Now that he knows it's a chess match, he may just win it.

She's named Inquisitor when they reach their destination, and there's a fair amount of fanfare. He's pleased to see her up there-- she may not always agree with him, or vice versa, but he trusts her judgement. He's seen clearly and first-hand that she'll put the needs of her soldiers first, think seriously about their position, and always have a reason for her actions. It's all he could ask for in a commander.

She finds him later, when he's still setting up. They're excavating a tower for him, but it's currently full up with rubble; until then, his base of operations is the dilapidated front courtyard. 

"Um," she says, uncharacteristically tentative, "Cullen?"

"Yes?" He hands a stack of papers to one of his lieutenants. 

"When you have a moment..."

Is that a joke? "What is it?"

"I just-" She curses under her breath, and takes what seems to be, for her, a plunge right into it. Brash as always, he thinks with an unexpected amount of fondness. She's a strange one, he supposes, but it makes her stand out. Strange is better than dead, strange is vibrant and aggressive and right there in front of him... apologizing?

"It's just," she says, "I'm the Inquisitor now, and I can't act the way I was-- I wouldn't even if I wasn't. I was- Andraste's tits, I was an arse."

He snorts. "You were."

She lets out a long sigh. "I was just- no, you know what? I'm just an arse sometimes. There's no bloody excuse for it."

"It's fine, Inquisitor."

"Oh, Maker, can't you call me Ioane? Inquisitor this, Herald that, I'd like to have some friends in this bloody place."

"So you went to me?" He can't help the humor leaking into his voice. 

"You've seen the worst of me," she says, and seeing his grin, her voice becomes lighter as well. It almost sounds nice. "I figure, if we can be friends, I can be friends with near anyone."

He has to laugh at that. "Alright, Inquisitor Ioane." He holds out his hand for a shake, and she takes it. 

"Ohh," she says, "a compliment. I'm bloody charmed."

He rolls his eyes, and now _she's_ laughing.

They work hard to make Skyhold hospitable. More than that, Cullen wants to see it _defensible_. They need a fortress, if they're to be any sort of force in the world, much less one to stand against one of the originators of the Blight. 

When he has the rare moment to himself, sometimes, he'll survey the battlements, check for weaknesses. Ioane helps. "I was at the siege of Denerim," she says. "I have first-hand experience."

"That was ten years ago. How old were you?" He shakes his head. "Likely you spent it hiding under a table somewhere."

"It was in a cupboard, thank you," she says, smiling pleasantly. "And I was sixteen."

"So you can tell me all about siege equipment?"

"Would Andraste have chosen someone who _couldn't_?"

He laughs, and they keep walking, picking their way around a displaced stone or a dip in the foundation of the wall. Silence settles over them, and Cullen, for once, opts to be the one to break it. It seems a better plan than letting her set the course; who knows where they'll end up.

"I suppose we have less to talk about, now," he says, looking up at the sky, "now that you're not, what was it? 'Being an arse'?"

Ioane laughs, a single echoed bark over the battlements. "I could always go back to flirting with you."

He sputters. " _Flirting_ with me?"

"I mean," she says, "I _was_ being an arse when I was flirting with you, but-"

" _Flirting_?"

"Yeah, I mean..." She looks straight at him, frowning in confusion. "You didn't notice?"

"I thought you were just... being an arse." He sounds ridiculous. He needs to gather himself together somehow, but he's still trying to figure it out-- "I thought you _disliked_ me. Greatly, in fact."

"What? No," she shakes her head. "I respected you. I still do, I mean, or I wouldn't've apologized, would I? You're a good bloody general, and that's what the Inquisition needs."

"Then why did you- you _picked_ on me."

"Aw, I picked on you? Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Ioane."

"Sorry," she said, and ran her fingers back through her hair. "Habit. My family... we're not nice people. I guess it's just the way I grew up. Sometimes, when I see someone I like or whatever, I think, shit, they'll _never_ respect me, and I just get _angry_."

Cullen has done far, far worse things in anger; it's easy to forgive. "It's fine, Ioane," he says. "Though..." he feels his face heating. "When you say 'liked'."

"You're fit," she says as though it's obvious. "You had to've noticed."

"I-" he shakes his head. "That's not the point."

"And you're bloody respectable. Got the air of a noble without being one." It is, honestly, nice to hear, if confusing in its delivery. Ioane continues. "And you're nice, even when I'm not. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"I'm..." he thinks back to that conversation with Leliana. It seems like a lifetime ago. "I was a templar."

Ioane shrugs, scoffing dismissively. "I don't have a single fucking problem with templars."

"So... then, what are you...?" Somehow, he got lost in the brambles of this conversation. It's a familiar when speaking with Ioane. 

"What am I what?" She's not going to make it easy for him, then. Which is, it seems, another familiar feeling when speaking with her. 

He clears his throat.

"You were flirting with me."

"Yeah? I can again, I'll ask about your smallclothes."

" _Don't_ -"

She laughs, and he resists the growing urge to massage his temples.

"What's wrong, you never been flirted with before? It's harmless, don't worry. I won't end up in your bed all the sudden. Now, _there_ 's a nightmare for you."

It's a sad thing to say about yourself, Cullen supposes, but he doesn't have time to argue with her about the various merits of her face (he's fought alongside women; female warriors tend to have varying estimations of their own looks). "So you didn't... mean anything by it?"

"What's this, then?" She stops walking, and turns to face him directly. "D'you _want_ me to mean something by it?"

He can't tell if she's dragging this out on purpose, or if she's genuinely confused. "No," he says, and then, "yes, I mean, I'm, I don't know-"

She continues to stare. For once, she doesn't interrupt him.

So, of course, he babbles like a Maker-damned fool. "You're- I've been thinking about you a lot, you know, and you- I was terrified to think you'd died- I respect you-"

That, finally, gets a response. He's never heard her voice sound so tentative before: "You respect me?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I?"

Instead of answering, she just kisses him. Or maybe that is her answer. It doesn't matter, it feels right, it feels _good_ , Maker, it makes sense now. This is what he wanted. He can be content with this.

And, of course, in the Maker's infinite sense of humor, one of his scribes interrupts them. He sends the man away with his tail between his legs, and when he turns back to Ioane, her eyes are wide and bright. She has her hands pressed over her mouth to suppress laughter. "Oh, _my_ ," she says. "I can't be that good a kisser."

"I can't- you're not- Oh, for-" He kisses her to stop his mouth. She's warm and soft-- surprisingly so, given the way she talks, and fights, and laughs. But in his arms, she's all soft edges, happily sighing into his mouth and clinging to the fur of his armor. 

"Damn," she says when they break apart, and is she blushing? She _is_. Cullen feels an absurd burst of pride at the discovery. "You- we have to do that again sometime."

"I'd like that," he said.

"I would too."

"You said that."

"Oh, hang it." She nudges him, reaching forward to push his shoulder, but it's gentle, and she still hasn't quite met his eye. She's looking at the stone of the wall beneath them, blushing and grinning ear to ear. It's a true, genuine expression of humble feeling from her. Cullen feels a silly little thrill run through him at the thought that he caused that in her. That he has that effect on her, it's marvelous. 

He takes a step forward. "You're marvelous."

"Hah," she says, looking up at him with something like shyness. "What are you on about, now?"

"You are," he says, and kisses her once, gently, on the mouth. She leans into him, which he wasn't expecting, and he stumbles a little. She laughs, and hugs him close.

"Thanks," she says, and looks a little sad with it. "But you should get back to work, d'you think?"

"Yes," he sighs, "I should."

"I'll... visit you?" She sounds impossibly tentative. He didn't know she _could_ sound like that.

"Of course. And I'll visit you." As soon as he says it, of course, he realizes it's ridiculous; when will he have time? But it doesn't matter, because she's beaming.

And they do meet, after that. They rebuild Skyhold, and he steals time with her in the odd off moment, rushed kisses while passing in the hallway. It's not ideal, and in her typical fashion, Ioane scratches the scab until it bleeds.

They're kissing in a shadowed archway, barely enough room to breathe. He's not sure why the secrecy has become a running theme-- it isn't as though this is the Circle, where such liaisons, even between templars, was frowned on-- but it doesn't seem to be going away any time soon. She keeps grabbing him, pulling him into an alcove or behind a staircase for a kiss. And today, she's trying to get her hands into his trousers.

"No, no," he grabs at her wrists. "Are you mad?"

"Are _you_ mad? I've been waiting for you to make the first move for a _month_." She hisses her whispers back at him.

"What? You-?" That's not important right now if she gets her hands into his drawers-- he slaps her wrist away like an old matron. "You can't be serious, there are people _right there_."

"So you'll be quiet, it'll be fine," she says, but she's not trying to unbuckle his belts anymore.

"I want to do this _right_ if we're going to do this at all."

"Oh," she said, "you have standards. Sorry, I forgot people still had those."

He grins, and steps forward. "What are you implying?"

"That I have no standards?" She takes a step forward, too, which would be romantic if her hand didn't immediately find his arse. 

He laughs, "I'll just have to endure." And then he walks out of that blighted alcove.

But it does get him thinking. He's never had a proper romance-- a few liaisons with other templars, yes, but those were always with the understanding that they'd end eventually, that it was convenient, mutually respectful. It's not _romantic_. And this is romance, isn't it? He's found himself, more than once, thinking about her when she's not around, how soft her mouth is, how humbled she gets when he speaks any words of praise. It brings a warmth to his chest, even when the cold wind of the mountains whips around him.

What does one do with a _romance_ , then? 

When she visits him next, it's in his quarters along the wall. It's not entirely repaired, but it's habitable, certainly, even if the hole in the roof makes it colder than necessary. Ioane is, of course, poking around in every nook and cranny, and he lets her. It's nice to see her so happy and consumed with meaningless tasks, instead of the serious expression she makes at the war table, where every decision decides the fate of lives.

"And this ladder?"

"My bedroom."

" _Ohh_."

He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "It's not very interesting, it's just a bed and a hole in the ceiling."

"I can do a _lot_ with a bed." She looks up the ladder. "Race you."

"There's only one ladder!"

She's cackling when she disappears up the thing, and he's left grumbling (but still smiling) when he pulls off the worst of his armor to climb up after her. It's too heavy to bother bringing up the ladder. Instead, he climbs after her wearing his tunic and trousers. He finds her sitting on his bed (didn't he have a dream like this, once?) fussing with the buckles of her boots.

She frowns when she sees him. "I was hoping the armor'd weigh you down."

"And then, what, by the time I'm up here you're undressed?"

She shrugs, and he feels his ears go pink. "I told you," she says, "no standards."

Luckily, he finally knows what to say in these situations. "Well, I have standards, and you meet them."

She goes pink in return, and he meets her on the bed. It's cold in his room, but she's warm underneath him, and that's all he needs. It's unlike what he's had before, there's laughing, and a fair deal of talking. She moans louder than anyone in the Circle could have gotten away with, and maybe that's good, too. It's the punchline to the joke, and the Maker has an excellent sense of humor.


End file.
